


Stay

by tardisy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x03 Coda, M/M, POV Second Person, Post-Episode: s09e03 I'm No Angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 20:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tardisy/pseuds/tardisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that’s what does it. It’s the reminder of his warm skin against your hands, his scruff biting into your palms, but there’s no relief, no joy, as there should be, it’s only a sign of just how close you came, and how you failed him again. You sink onto your bed, shaking, in anger, in grief, your breathing quickly becoming labored even as the memory foam gives pleasantly beneath you. Goddammit, this is not how this is supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr.](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/65408008401/stay-9x03-coda)

 

You don’t quite remember the journey from the suffocating library to the haven of your room. You don’t remember that sick turning of your stomach at seeing him so content, the happiest you believe you’ve ever seen him, and ripping that away from him in one awful breath. You don’t remember the swift constriction in your chest, or the vague, dizzy feeling you got as he watched you with those clear, ancient eyes, watched you push away from the table and turn away from him. Turn your back on him. His face doesn’t haunt you as you glide numbly from the room to gather some necessities for when you push him into the unknown, and you don’t remember stopping in the middle of the dimly lit hallway, shaking, falling against the wall, gasping.

The warm light seeping from the lamps, the plush comforter you added to your bed for the change of seasons, your mother’s smile beaming at you from your nightstand, typically welcoming, comforting, now seem mocking and cruel. The closet door – no longer hanging precariously, creaking, after your careful attention – groans dangerously in its tracks, protesting at your vicious pull. You rummage through bags, testing sturdiness, durability.  It doesn’t take long, as you don’t have much, but you have far more than the one you will be giving it to, who will be walking away from you again, _again_ , and this time it truly is your fault, it’s – your heart kicks painfully in your chest, and you push up from your crouch too quickly, aches old and new making themselves known.

You run your fingers along the worn material of the bag (in the same way you might have thought, perhaps, you’d daringly drag your fingertips down his side when you finally found him and brought him _home_ ) and, yes, this is the one. It’s the one you’ve used since you found yourself looking up to your brother instead of the other way around, the clothes of two young men unable to be held in a single bag. This bag was your father’s, and as everything else he ever given you, you’ve been carrying it on your shoulders for almost your whole life. Unbidden, a memory of a motel room, not so long ago, of you and your brother sitting across from one another as the third member of your family rifles through this very duffel, touching your things, a curious frown on his beloved face, and the feeling of pleasure, of relief, at his very presence, suffuses you now as quickly as it did then, because he was _there_ , and he was _safe_ , and he was _staying_. It was everything you wanted, had wanted for years, and it had been ripped away from you, as it had for years. It is everything you still want, is within grasp, except now, now –

The heavy material of the bag thumps dully when it lands on your bed, and you throw open your dresser drawers to collect some clean clothes for him: some undershirts, several t-shirts, some sweatshirts, sweaters, socks, and, after a brief, uncertain pause, some underwear as well. Some flannels from the closet are added to the pile, as well as a worn corduroy jacket. It’s getting colder, but the bag won’t hold as much as you wish you could give him, so he’ll have to find a comfortable compromise with layers. There is a disconnect as you work, gathering deodorant, toothpaste, disposable razors,  travel bottles of shampoo, and, with no small amount of doubt and hesitation, a small half-empty bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, throwing them into the growing collection on your bed. He’ll need a weapon besides that blade of his, but as sure as you are of his steady hand in combat, you are less sure of that steady hand holding a firearm. Something simple then, point and shoot, minimal kickback, not what you want him to have, no, but you don’t have time to teach him as you had planned, and you _had_ planned, imagined down to the last detail what may transpire –

Holy water. He’ll need holy water, and salt, and maybe Sam has some hex bags in the trunk? He can’t just smite away the danger anymore, and _god_ , that hurts as much as it did when you heard his confession in that hospital hallway, close but still miles away from each other. The pain is amplified when you think about just how he found that out, and _Jesus, that guy could’ve killed you, man_ , not to mention the woman – no, creature – that _did._

And that’s what does it. It’s the reminder of his warm skin against your hands, his scruff biting into your palms, but there’s no relief, no joy, as there should be, it’s only a sign of just how close you came, and how you failed him again. You sink onto your bed, shaking, in anger, in grief, your breathing quickly becoming labored even as the memory foam gives pleasantly beneath you. Goddammit, god-fucking- _dammit_ , this is not how this is supposed to be.

You were supposed to find him, patch him up if need be, help him sink into the backseat so he could stretch out and rest on your drive back to the bunker. With the headlights of the Impala and the starlight above the only illumination in the dark night, you were meant to carefully turn off the radio on an empty stretch of highway, and be able to look to your right, see your brother folded in on himself against the door, sleeping deeply, and then look into the rearview mirror, and see him sprawled against the warm leather, snuffling in his slumber, like a prototype misfiring before getting it right. You would have smiled and, yes, you can admit to yourself, especially now, you probably would shed some tears, because finally, they were both here, under your watchful gaze, and you were finally together, and you were going home. _Home_ , where you would all stay, and when you got there you would poke at your brother, and he’d swat at you predictably and sleepily unbuckle his seatbelt, and you would both roll out of the car on weary legs, mirror images. While Sam opened the door and called to Kevin, you would open the backdoor, but he still would not have stirred, so tired after all he’s been through. But you would want to get him into the safety of the bunker, so you would have laid a hand on his sturdy shoulder, and you would imagine that if you could, perhaps you would brand _him_ there, _property of Dean Winchester, woe to anyone who dares hurt him_ , but, then again, even if you could you wouldn’t, because he belongs to himself, has fought and bled and sacrificed for that like no one you have ever known.

And while you would have been lost in that reverie, he would have awoken, because he may no longer be an angel, but he is always a soldier, and he has sensed in sleep that something has changed. His eyes would have cracked open in confusion, fleeting, before he registers where his is, and that is your hand on him, that it is you leaning over him, your breath ruffling his hair while your fingers itch to do the same. And he would have smiled then, asked, _Are we here?_ , and you would have answered, _Yeah, we’re home, buddy_ , and at the word ‘home’ his soft smile would have overtaken his entire face, and who would have needed a light in the dark night if he kept doing that?

He would have gripped your offered hand and only groaned a little as you hauled him out of the car. You would have let him stretch, and then slung an arm over his shoulders to guide him inside, directly to the warmth of the kitchen, where Sam and Kevin would be waiting. You would make them dinner or, in Kevin’s case, a late night snack, and talk about where he has been, what he has seen. And then you would tell him how you’re all going shopping when you wake up, because he needs a wardrobe, and there’s an empty space in the pantry reserved for whatever suits his tastes that needs filling. Eventually you would all be too sleepy to hold up your heads, much less conversation, full of good food and contentment at being reunited.  Kevin, yawning around a smile, would shuffle off to bed, and so would your brother, but not before he claps a heavy hand on his shoulder and shakes him lightly, his joy at having him back under your roof and care perhaps rivaling your own. Then you would be alone with him, staring at him as he leans against the kitchen counter, standing across from each other as you did in Bobby’s house so long ago, and, god, how far you’ve come. He would yawn, a loud, rude noise that would jolt the laughter out of you, and you wouldn’t be able to help but to reach for him again, because this is everything you wished for, and nothing you believed you could have.

You would lead him down the hallway, pointing out the bathroom, Kevin’s room, Sam’s room, and, a little ways down, _here’s you, mine’s right across if you need something_. And he would duck his head into his room, saying, _Mine? Really?,_ and yeah, his eyes would be shining brightly even in the dim light, and at that, yours would be wet too, exhaustion and relief making everything sharper, and you both more vulnerable. You’d stand together awkwardly for a few moments, the first night of what you hope would be a long routine, before you bid him goodnight, and as you turn he would grip you tightly and pull you in, a shaky _Thank you, Dean_ muffled wetly against your shoulder, and he would slide just as quickly into his room, before you had a chance to hold him in return.

You would stand alone in the hallway for one beat, two, before floating into your room and settling on your bed. You would sit there, as you are doing now, and you would think about how you will take him to every restaurant in the area, pay as much as it takes to discover his favorite food, the one that makes you shake your head in warning as he stuffs himself full (rather than shuffling through your wallet, as you are doing now, pulling cash and credit cards that will keep him out of garbage cans and dumpsters, searching for anything to stop the painful clench of his stomach).

You’d imagine how you’d drag him down to the Men of Letters’ firing range, show him how to properly clean and assemble every firearm in your arsenal, and how you’d watch in delight as he excelled in it all (rather than skimming your hands over guns, as you are doing now, the ones that are reliable, won’t misfire, that aren’t too complicated, and praying to a god that you hate and probably isn’t listening that he better _watch over him, dammit, let his aim be true and quick, let this fucking thing protect him like I can’t._ ).

You would think about teaching him how to cook ( _Does he know how a microwave works? That he shouldn’t put tinfoil in there? What if he gets electrocuted because he doesn’t remember?_ ); you’d think about sitting with him on the worn sofa in the bunker’s den, wasting away all of your downtime as you show him every episode of Dr. Sexy, Star Trek, and everything you’ve managed to collect over the years, watching his face more than the screen, learning together how to unwind, and that you both deserve it ( _Remind him not to let his guard down. Don’t get distracted, and don’t relax. That’s when they come for you._ ).

You would think about being next to him in all of those instances, as he points at a particular item on a sticky menu, as he learns to sauté onions, as he first takes aim, as he sinks toward the center of the couch. You think about what he might do if you became bold enough to bump his shoulder in the booth of the restaurant and not move away, even under Sam’s overly pleased gaze; if you pressed just a bit too close to him as you reached for the salt on the stove, ignoring the bite of the oil jumping from the pan; if you sidled behind him, chin on his shoulder, shooting earmuffs ricocheting off one another, heart pounding as you dared to close your hands over his, cradling the gun together, correcting his aim; if you leaned against him on the couch, offered to share the sole blanket slung over the back, let his head loll against your shoulder as he dozes and, maybe, you’d pull him closer and press your cheek against his dark head, and whenever you breathed in you’d smell your shampoo in his hair.

And maybe, one night you’d be in your bed, on the brink of sleep, and your door would creak open and the hallway light would spill in, and he’d shyly shuffle into your room, dark circles underneath his eyes, t-shirt creased and hair rumpled. He’d open his mouth to speak, try several times without success before he gave up, shoulders slumped, hands shaking, lost. You’d lean up on your elbow and pull your covers back without hesitation. He would start forward, and he would hesitate, but while you wouldn’t push, you also wouldn’t rescind your invitation. The mattress would eventually dip with his weight as he would swing his legs beneath the sheets, and you’d push your pillow toward him so he wouldn’t strain his neck. With the door cracked open, it would be just enough to see his face is the same when he turns toward you, your knees bumping together. He wouldn’t speak, and neither would you, but he would sigh softly when you reached out to a settle your hand on his ribcage, his waist, run your hand back up to his shoulder and down his arm, tangling your fingers together.  He would close his eyes, calming, _Dean_ gently tumbling from his lips.

You would stay awake long after he succumbed to sleep, watching over him as he had watched over you for all of these years, and if you pulled his limp hand to your mouth to press a kiss to his twitching fingers, and then did the same to the tip of his nose, his forehead, while he slept, he didn’t have to know. Just as he didn’t have know the words that you whisper in the darkness, sentiments you try to relay with action, because words aren’t your thing, but he would be breathing deeply, evenly, warm and close, and the cover of darkness would make you brave. _I’m so glad you’re here_ and _I’d do anything for you_ and _I hope you know that_. _You’re my best friend_ and _You’re our family, my family,_ and, you have said this, but still, _I need you_. And as you are pulled under, lulled into sleep by the comforting beat of the pulse at his wrist and the soothing puffs of breath against your face, _All I’ve ever wanted is for you to stay_ and _I don’t care if you’re an angel, or human, or a friggin’ giraffe; you’re you, and I will always want you, no matter what you are or what we are or might be or might never be, I just want you to stay, to be here. Please stay, no matter what happens out there, no matter how I screw up. Cas. Stay._

None of those things have happened, and now, never will.  Instead, you will fold up the clothes and place them in the bag that has held your own possessions, precious and few, and that has allowed you to keep them with you, and safe. You will gather the things that are necessary tools of being human, and the things that help to make being human bearable. You will give him the things that will help keep him alive: you will go to the pantry and choose food you hope he will like, because you will not have the honor to learn firsthand, and you will choose the best weapons that he will be able to smuggle and handle easily. You will give him money and create an identity for him, so while he may be alone, he will at least be _someone_ in the eyes of society. You will impart some advice, clipped and flat, as you buy and print a bus ticket and call for a cab to meet him down the street. You will absolutely not touch him, and you will try to avoid his eyes as he cycles through confused, furious, and, fuck, _heartbroken_.

You will at least walk him to the door, carrying the overstuffed duffel full of the things you had planned, had hoped, had desperately wished for, and, even though it’s unwise, you will accompany him halfway down the street. There, you will press the bag into his arms and wait for him to sling it unsteadily over his back, the weight of it making him rock on his heels. You will give him a cell phone, tell him the charger is in the bag and to make sure to use it every night, tell him that besides Garth, Kevin, and Charlie, every number you and Sam have ever had is programmed into it, and _call, dammit, if you need anything, anything at all._ You will make a mistake and meet his eyes, shining but not revealing anything, as you say: _I will be there in a second if you need me_. He will nod shortly, mouth and shoulders stiffly set. He will look uncertain, still confused at the whole situation, but his chin will be up and he will be holding his head high as he turns away from you and continues down the road alone. He will not turn back, and you are grateful because if he did you would lose your tenuous hold on your threadbare control. He will not look back as he ducks into the cab, and you are grateful because if he did he would hear your voice carried on the wind.

_Cas. Stay._

_Stay._

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr.](http://tardisy.tumblr.com/post/65408008401/stay-9x03-coda)


End file.
